A Breach of Promise (10 page)

T
HE
L
AMBERTS WERE NOT OPEN
to negotiation of any sort. Killian Melville was sued for breach of promise and the case came to trial very rapidly. It was naturally attended by a great deal of gossip and speculation. Such an event had not happened in society in some while, and it was on everyone’s lips.

Oliver Rathbone had given his word to defend Melville, so although he still had no further information which he could use, he was in court with a calm face and a steady smile to face Wystan Sacheverall, acting for Miss Zillah Lambert but, of course, paid by and instructed by her parents.

The jury had already been selected: a group of men more embarrassed by their position than usual and—quite obviously to even the casual eye—wishing they were not involved in what was a private and domestic matter. Looking at them, Rathbone wondered how many of them had daughters of their own. Above half of them were of an age to be considering their own children’s marriages.

How many of them had made rash promises in their youth and lived to regret them, or at least attempted to retract them? Were their own marriages happy? Were their experiences of domestic family life ones they would wish upon another? So much might hang upon things Rathbone would never know. They would remain two rows of well-to-do men of varying ages, different appearances and characteristics, with only two things in common: the reputation and the personal means to
become a juror; and a degree of discomfort at finding themselves obliged to make a decision they would much rather not.

The judge was a smallish man with mild features and remarkably steady, candid blue eyes. He spoke very quietly. One was obliged to listen in order to hear what he said.

The first witness called was Barton Lambert. He looked angry and unhappy as he strode across the open space in the front of the room and climbed the steps to the witness-box. His cheeks were flushed and his arms and body stiff.

Beside Rathbone, Killian Melville bit his lip and looked down at the table. He had seemed thoroughly wretched throughout their preparation, but no matter what Rathbone had said, any argument or estimate he had offered about the probable outcome, Melville had refused to be swayed from his decision to fight.

Sacheverall moved forward. He was a plain man with rather large ears, but he had a confidence which lent him a certain grace, and he had a good height and broad shoulders. His fair hair was in need of cutting, and curled up at his collar. His voice was excellent, and he knew it.

Barton Lambert took the oath to tell the truth, the whole of it, and nothing else.

Sacheverall smiled at him. “We all appreciate that this is a most distressing experience for you, Mr. Lambert, and that you bring this action at all only to defend your daughter’s good name. We realize that there is no animosity in your action, and no desire to inflict embarrassment or pain upon anyone—”

The judge leaned forward. “Mr. Sacheverall, there is no need to state your case. We require you simply to prove it, if you will be so good,” he said gently. “If you will give us the facts, we shall draw our own conclusion. We assume all parties to be honorable, until shown otherwise. Please provide your evidence.”

Sacheverall looked taken aback. Apparently he did not know Mr. Justice McKeever.

Rathbone knew him only by repute. He hid his smile.

“My lord,” Sacheverall acknowledged. “Mr. Lambert, will
you please tell the court how you first made the acquaintance of Killian Melville, and in what circumstances he was introduced to your daughter, Miss Zillah Lambert, upon whose behalf you are bringing this suit.”

“Of course,” Lambert said gruffly, and cleared his throat and then coughed, raising a large hand to his mouth. “I had a little capital I wanted to spend. Create something beautiful out of what I had earned.” He looked at Sacheverall for approval and continued when he saw him nod. “I thought of a building … something real handsome … different … new. I had several architects recommended to me.” He moved uncomfortably. “Saw all their plans. Young Melville was one of ’em. Liked his the best, by a long way. The others were adequate … but pedestrian compared wi’ his.” He took a deep breath, filling his lungs. “I sent for him. Liked him straight off. Modest enough, but sure of ‘imself. Looked me straight in the eye.” He coughed again. “He wanted the job, I could see that, but he wasn’t going to curry favor for it. His designs were good, and he knew it.”

“You commissioned him to draw the plans for your new building?” Sacheverall concluded.

“Yes sir, I did. And it was the admiration of all my acquaintances, and many strangers, when it was built. In Abercorn Place, it is, in Maida Vale.” There was a ring of pride in Lambert’s voice when he said it. Whatever his feelings for Melville currently, he still regarded his work with delight. “You may have seen it …” he added hopefully.

“Indeed I have,” Sacheverall agreed. “It is very beautiful. Was it at this time that you came to know Mr. Melville socially and invited him to your home?”

“It was. Not at first, you understand,” he explained, “but as the building was nearing completion. Naturally he had to come and consult with me from time to time. Very diligent, he was. Left nothing to chance.”

“Not a careless man?” Sacheverall noted.

Rathbone knew what he was doing, but he could not stop
him. He looked at the jurors’ faces. They were all men of property, by definition, or they would not be jurors. They would understand Lambert’s feelings and identify with them, even if their own estates were on a vastly smaller scale.

“Not at all,” Lambert said vehemently. “Wouldn’t employ a careless man. I couldn’t have got where I am, sir, if I couldn’t judge a man’s ability in his profession.” He took another deep breath, as if steadying himself. “Thought I could judge a man’s personal character as well. Would have sworn Melville was as honorable as any man I’ve known. Looks as if I’m not as clever as I thought, doesn’t it?”

“I am afraid it does, sir,” Sacheverall agreed. “Did you introduce Melville to your family, most specifically to your daughter, Miss Zillah Lambert?”

“I did.”

“Forgive me for asking you this, sir, when it must sound highly indelicate, but did you introduce Mr. Melville as a socially acceptable person, a fit companion for your daughter, a friend; or as an employee, a person of inferior rank?”

“Certainly not!” Barton Lambert was affronted. Of all things, he was not socially arrogant. No one impressed him by birth or rank, except Her Majesty the Queen. She was an entirely different matter. He was intensely patriotic, and she was the head of his country and the seat of his ultimate loyalty. “Killian Melville was good enough to speak to anyone, and I introduced him as such,” he said sharply. “My daughter was brought up to respect a man who earned his way and left the world a better place than he found it.” It was said with a note of challenge, and he swiveled around to look at the jurors as he spoke. If he had to parade his family’s shame before the gentlemen of society, he would do it with his head high and his standards unmistaken by any.

Against his will, Rathbone liked the man already.

“Quite.” Sacheverall nodded, inclining his head a trifle towards the jurors. “You introduced him to your home and family as an equal. You offered him complete hospitality.”
That was a statement, not a question. He proceeded to the point. “And he became friendly with your wife and daughter?”

“He did.”

“He visited regularly and was at ease in your company …” Sacheverall glanced at Rathbone. “Or should I say he appeared at ease?” he corrected.

“Yes sir.”

“You became fond of him?”

“I always liked him,” Lambert acknowledged. In all the time he had been on the stand he had not looked at Melville. Rathbone was acutely aware of it, and he was certain Melville was also.

“Did you take him with you to social events outside your home?”

“From time to time. He wasn’t one for a lot of dining out and polite conversation, and I don’t think he danced.”

Rathbone stood up. “My lord, no one disputes that Mr. Lambert and his family were gracious and friendly towards Mr. Melville and showed him the greatest hospitality, and that Mr. Melville in turn was grateful to them and held them in the highest personal regard. The only matter of issue is whether he feels himself suited to marry Miss Lambert, desired to do so, and actually contracted such an agreement. Mr. Melville contends that Miss Lambert mistook the nature of his regard for her and Mrs. Lambert assumed something that was not in fact so. It is even imaginable that Miss Lambert herself knew this but did not feel able to extricate herself from what had become an embarrassing situation.”

Mr. Justice McKeever smiled. “All manner of things are imaginable, Sir Oliver. We will restrict ourselves to what is demonstrable. However, Mr. Sacheverall, I take Sir Oliver’s point that no one disputes the fact that a warm friendship developed between Mr. Melville and Mr. Lambert’s family, especially his daughter. Such friendships do not always end in marriage. Please proceed with your case.”

Sacheverall bowed, but he turned back to Lambert with
perhaps a fraction less confidence in his stance and the set of his shoulders.

“During the course of their friendship, did Mr. Melville on occasion escort your daughter to certain functions, keep her company, walk and talk with her, tell her of his exploits, adventures, plans for the future? Did he share ideas with her, tastes in art, literature and music? Did he read poetry together with her, show her the drawings of his work, share jokes and humorous episodes? In general, did he pay court to her, Mr. Lambert?”

Rathbone glanced sideways at Melville, but he was staring straight ahead.

“He did all of those things, sir, as you well know,” Lambert answered grimly. Sacheverall’s words must have brought back memories to him, because now his reluctance was gone and he was plainly both hurt and angry. He no longer avoided Melville but looked straight at him, challengingly, all his bewilderment clear in his face.

Rathbone felt a sinking inside him. There was no defense against his kind of honesty. Had he been a juror he could have found only one way. Killian Melville was guilty, and it was almost impossible to believe well of him. No man could court a girl in the manner Lambert described and not expect that she would read it as a declaration of love. Anyone would. Not even a fool could mistake it.

He looked sideways again at Melville now. His fair head was bent forward and there was a flush in his cheeks. His eyes were filled with despair, as if he were trapped with no escape.

Rathbone was not sure whether he felt sorry for him or simply so overwhelmed with anger he wanted to slap him for his irresponsible cruelty.

“So it came as no surprise to you in the least when a betrothal followed, in the natural course of events?” Sacheverall concluded.

“Of course not!” Lambert responded. “No one was surprised! It was as night follows day.”

“Quite so.” Sacheverall smiled sadly. He pursed his lips,
frowning as he looked up at Lambert. “Arrangements were made for the wedding?”

“Yes. Announcement in the
Times.
All society knew.” Lambert pronounced the words sharply, showing his pain and perhaps a certain feeling of alienation, as if he were only too aware of the whispers and the amusement which would be enjoyed at his family’s expense.

“Naturally,” Sacheverall murmured. “And then what happened, Mr. Lambert?”

Lambert squared his shoulders. “Melville broke it off,” he said quietly. “No reason. No warning. Just broke it off.”

“It was Killian Melville, not your daughter?” Sacheverall stressed, anger plain in his voice.

Rathbone looked at Melville, and he was sitting forward, one hand to his lips, biting his nails.

“It was.” Lambert’s face showed the strain. He was being publicly humiliated. He refused to look at anyone in the gallery. Rathbone was sharply aware of how much better it would have been for everyone if Zillah Lambert had consented to be the one to break the betrothal, regardless of whether she wished to or not. Apparently she had simply not believed Melville meant what he said.

Although, of course, Rathbone had only Melville’s word for it that he had actually tried to approach her. Perhaps he had failed in courage when it came to the moment.

“Have you any idea whatever what caused Mr. Melville’s extraordinary behavior, sir?” Sacheverall asked, his fair eyebrows raised, his whole stance conveying bewilderment.

“No idea at all,” Lambert said, shaking his head. “Can’t begin to understand it. Makes no sense.”

“Not to me,” Sacheverall agreed. “Unless there are things we do not know about Mr. Killian Melville….”

Rathbone rose to his feet.

Sacheverall waved at him airily. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.” He smiled, knowing he was almost invulnerable, and returned to his seat.

Rathbone felt somehow wrong-footed. He had never
opposed Sacheverall across a court before. He knew his reputation, but somehow he had underrated him. His plain, rather foolish-looking face was deceiving. The quality of his voice should have warned him.

He walked to the middle of the open space surrounded by the lawyers’ positions, the witness-box, the judge and the high double row of jurors. He looked up at Barton Lambert. Apart from his own respect for the man, he knew better than to antagonize him. The jurors were already by nature and inclination in sympathy with him.

“How do you do, Mr. Lambert,” he began. “I am sorry for the circumstance which brings us together again. I need to ask you a few questions about this affair, in order to clarify it and to do my duty by my client.”

“I understand, sir,” Lambert said graciously. “That’s why we’re here. Ask away.”

Rathbone acknowledged this with a nod of courtesy.

“During this time that Mr. Melville called frequently at your home, sir, was he employed by you to design and oversee the construction of buildings you had commissioned?”

“He was.”

“And he was friendly with all your family?”

“Not the way you’re putting it, sir,” Lambert argued. “You’re trying to say he was equally friendly with all of us, and that’s not so. He was civil and pleasant to Mrs. Lambert. He was always pleasant with me, but he would be, wouldn’t he?” He raised his eyebrows. “I was his patron in his profession—his employer, in a sense. He’d have been a fool to be less than polite to me.” But his eyes avoided Melville as he spoke. “Not that I didn’t think he liked me, mind; and I liked him. Well-spoken, intelligent, decent-thinking young man, I thought him. But it is my daughter he spent time with, laughed and talked with, shared his ideas and his dreams with, and no doubt all of hers too.”